


Get Your Mouth Open

by levendis



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Edgeplay, F/M, First Time, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:46:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2827184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Clara takes Twelve’s virginity, twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Your Mouth Open

The first time doing anything is always mildly confusing. Riding a bicycle, tying his shoes, sticking a landing; there’s what to do, how he used to do it, how he might do it now. The old memories unscramble, and new ones are made, and another piece of himself falls into place. Eventually, sooner or later.  
  
Missy was the first - situation, with the mouths and the hands and the things. But Missy is a Gordian knot in his hearts, something he can’t bear to look at, let alone attempt to unravel, and he’s perfectly content to consider this, now, the first time. His first - whatever it is Clara is doing. He’d like to make sure, just in case he’s misinterpreting, so he asks:  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
Clara’s eyes go wide. It’s that face, the extra-round one, where she turns into a tiny sphere of self-doubt. He doesn’t like that face.  
  
"I’m so sorry," she says. "I dunno what came over me. Let’s pretend it never happened. You can do that, right? Forget things? Please forget me doing - oh, God." She steps backwards, to the standard distance between them, then past that, into the angry/annoyed/frightened range.  
  
She’s supposed to be smarter than the other humans. He hates having to spell things out. “No, no, I mean literally. What, which one was that? And you don’t do anything accidentally, Clara, don’t pretend you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. So you’re lying. Which, I suppose, answers my question.”  
  
"Question?" She’s stopped backing away, but she’s still boxed up in herself - her facial expressions he’s never entirely sure about but that tense pose, fight-or-flight, he’s learned what that means.  
  
"About what sort of kiss that was," he says. Something is caught in his throat, his voice shouldn’t sound like that. "A platonic, friendly sort of…thing, or. Not. And is it alright if I don’t?"  
  
Her lips and eyebrows are smushing around in a way he couldn’t begin to interpret. “Don’t what?”  
  
"Forget." He stares at her for as long as he can manage, then lets his gaze drop down to the floor. The first time being reminded of any emotion is baffling at best. What it used to feel like, what it feels like now. The name of whatever parasite is growing inside him, the usual weakness. He wants to be done with running away from this, he wants to run, he wants to not want to run as much as he does. He wants - something.  
  
She’s close to him again. He can see her reflection in the mirror polish of his boots, and suddenly even that’s too much, so he closes his eyes. Braces himself against the console, that old comfortable hum seeping into him. He avoids getting even slightly near the telepathic circuits.  
  
"Is it alright, then?" She’s closer. Her eyes must be the size of dinner plates by now. "That I want - I mean, do you - can I kiss you again?"  
  
Things falling into place: she can, she absolutely can, he’d like that very much. “Yeah, okay, sure.” He’s certain he’s coming off cool and calm, aloof. She’ll never suspect a thing.  
  
She kisses him again. And this is what it feels like, with this new/old mouth, thin lips, sharp tongue, this is how he does it now. To be fair, it’s been a millennia since the last time. Not much to compare to. Better? Worse? Different, anyway. Probably. (His though processes are in no way affected by what Clara’s doing with her teeth. He’s a Time Lord, he can walk, talk, chew bubblegum, navel-gaze, and kiss someone all at the same time, no problem.)  
  
"Do you have any idea," she whispers, breath hot on his ear, "what you do to me?"  
  
That was a lie, the bit about there not being a problem. By now he should know how much easier things get when he remembers he’s an idiot. He has no idea, no. He doesn’t know anything. He’s not even sure what hands are for, where to put them, why the fact of hers closing around his is making him feel like his internal organs have been replaced with a swarm of bees. How she could possibly imagine he has half a clue what she wants is beyond him.  
  
She’s lifting her hands up to his shoulders, leaning full-body into him, pushing him back. The TARDIS gives out a few disgruntled noises and then goes into lockdown, before he can keysmash the three of them into a black hole. There’s a toggle switch pressing uncomfortably into his spine. She’s kissing him again, different places than he’d expect, arbitrary places. He’s aware of a half-familiar, tangled thing taking up space in his hearts, in the hollow where his stomach used to be.  
  
Name a thing and you take some of its power away. Name a thing and you can begin to control it. So name this, then: this heat, this sudden lack of air, this overwhelming sensitivity to every touch. He’s felt it before but so much time has passed since then, he’d been another man, it had been another life. The word for this is a confession, a surrender. Give a name to the thing making your bones ache and you have to admit it exists.  
  
 _Arousal, you nitwit_ , says a voice in his head. _We really have gotten dense in our old age, haven’t we._ He opens his eyes.  
  
She’s beautiful, and she’s his, but mostly he’s hers. Things fall into place.  
  
She’s talking, he doesn’t know about what, it’s not important, but he doesn’t interrupt, instead waits for her to stop and then says: “You’ll have to - be patient. It’s been a while.”  
  
"How long?"  
  
He feels like maybe he shouldn’t tell the truth. He does anyway. “Before Trenzalore.”  
  
She whistles (sympathy? amazement? these humans and their incomprehensible noises). Says, “Talk about a dry spell.” And, “Oh. So that means. You’re a virgin?” She’s positively gleeful.  
  
"No. _No._ Well, sort of. No. I’ve been around the block, Clara. You’d be hard-pressed to find anything I haven’t done at least once. But, yes, you are, this is the first, um. Time.” He’s less and less certain of what he’s saying as he goes on. The dismount is less than spectacular. Hey, he’s done worse.  
  
"Do you - do you know what you like?" She’s looking up at him so sweetly, gently. Somehow that makes it worse.  
  
He thinks about it. “You,” he says after a while. “I like you.”  
  
She rolls her eyes, boops him on the noise with her index finger. “Nice attempt at flattery, but it’s not really necessary. No, I mean - do you know _how_ you like it? At all? Or are we talking totally blank slate here?” She’s touching him as she says that, lightly, looking for some particular response. Neck, chest, belly, lower back, arse.  
  
It all seems pretty much the same level of nice/good/funny-weird-not-funny-ha-ha. He thinks, he’s not sure. He’s not sure of much these days. “I like you,” he says again.  
  
"That’s sweet, but that’s not how this works." She taps her foot, purses her lips, stares at him appraisingly. "It’s okay. We’ll find out. Go slow, yeah?"  
  
"Whatever you say, boss."  
  
  
  
  
It becomes a Thing. They do this now. At the end of a long day running down corridors and saving planets, or the rare field trip that doesn’t go horribly awry, sometimes before, even occasionally during. On the TARDIS, in her apartment, in supply closets. She shows him things, teaches him tricks that make his hearts race, make her gasp. She’s understanding when his first legitimate sexual performance in a thousand years is about as lackluster and unsatisfying as you’d expect. He catalogs every inch of her, every reaction. He’s learning; she’s a good teacher.  
  
The first time he makes her come, he feels like hiring a mariachi band, to celebrate. She probably wouldn’t appreciate that, though.  
  
He loosens up. She gets bolder. After a while he even relinquishes his coat, lets her undress him, socks and all. He’s not overly enthusiastic about nudity but she seems to like it, and that’s good enough for him. He lets her do pretty much anything. He says that to her, more than once, _whatever you want, that’s what I want, except for the armpit thing, that was deeply unpleasant._  
  
And she looks at him like, oh, what are we going to do with you? But also: tempted, intrigued, holding back on some final obscure desire.  
  
Part of him wants to make her lose that iron grip on herself, wants her to let loose whatever strange, buried needs she carries with her. What she won’t admit to, he wants her to admit to him.  
  
But by now he knows, no one can tell her what to do, not even him. She won’t be forced, and honestly he wouldn’t want to even try. When she’s ready, if she’s ready. If not, well, things as they are are more than fine.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
So she’s ready now, apparently. She has a look about her. He’s just got a sort of sixth sense about these things.  
  
"You said you wanted whatever I wanted. Did you mean that? Like really, truly mean it?"  
  
She has no idea. “Of course,” he says. “I’ve given up lying, for Lent.”  
  
"It’s not Lent."  
  
"We’re in the time vortex. Literally at every point in time, all at once. It can be Lent if I want."  
  
"You’re not even Catholic. Wait, are you?"  
  
He sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose. “That was mostly something I said for the sake of having something to say. I think you humans call it ‘making a joke.’ So could we move on and reach the point in the conversation where you tell me what it’s about?”  
  
She breathes in, and blurts out: “I wanna fuck you.”  
  
"I thought that’s what you’ve been doing?" She does like being on top. Which is fine, since he also likes her being on top.  
  
"No," she says. Slowly: "I want. To fuck you. Would that be something you are interested in?"  
  
And that’s how he winds up face-down against the TARDIS console, erection punching out coordinates that the old girl thankfully ignores, his dignity flapping in the breeze as Clara takes the first determined but tender steps towards fucking him.  
  
"Are you okay?" she asks.  
  
"I think so," he replies.  
  
"Do you want more?" She wiggles her fingers experimentally. His knees give out.  
  
"I think so," he says again.

 

 

* * *

 

  
And that’s why he now knows the precise temporal/spatial location of the best-rated sex shop in London. He’s not blushing. It’s hot out here, is all. And he is completely, utterly, 100% professionally detached as she drags him into the shop.  
  
The woman behind the till gives them a knowing smile. He hates her instantly. No, they don’t need any help finding anything, thank you and _please shut up_.  
  
Clara’s holding his hand still. He takes comfort in that, it’s a familiar thing, he knows how to hold hands. He doesn’t know what the vast majority of the shop’s wares are for. Pasta shaped like genitals? Leather things? Headbands with bunny ears on? What?  
  
She stops them in front of what is surely 21st century Earth’s most extensive dildo collection. He’s not blushing, no.  
  
"Pick one," she says. "And don’t say, ‘whatever you want’. I want you to pick one." She leans into him, arm sliding around his back. "I want you," she whispers, "to choose what I put inside you."  
  
"Um," he says, cleverly. "Nothing animal, for starters."  
  
"I appreciate that, thank you."  
  
"Nothing comically oversized?"  
  
"Understandable."  
  
"That one?" He points at something smallish, humanish, in a shade of bright green that makes some long-abandoned part of him inexplicably happy.  
  
"Say it like you mean it." She curls her hand, digging her nails into his ribcage. She’s enjoying this, he realizes. He can smell it. Rassilon preserve him.  
  
"That one," he says, decisively, not sure if he means it. "Although you realize I have a time machine, and we aren’t limited to your world. The 23rd century has some spectacular advances in-"  
  
"No. No weird future-dildos. Not yet, anyway." She grins. "Go slow, remember?"  
  
  
They shower together in the TARDIS - the water pressure in her apartment is terrible - she scrubs every inch of him, he mostly touches her hair. They emerge pink and impatient, drying brusquely off with the towels he nicked from the Vienna Astoria in 1917. She’s so efficient. He doesn’t think he’s ever been cleaner.  
  
She leads him out. Her house, her rules. That entity in him growing - lust, anticipation, fear, love, trust, all bundled together and threatening to burst through his chest. She’s got a look of steely determination, underlaid with something else, and she’s got a newly-purchased neon green dildo, and a tube of lubricant, and she’s got him where she wants him.  
  
He watches her step into the harness, buckling it tight around her hips. The creature inside him coils up, warm and strange and twitching nervously. She keeps her heels on. This is happening, this is what he wants now. Things fall into place.  
  
She pushes him down onto the bed, nudges him over onto his stomach. He tries to relax, breathe evenly. Her bedspread has little flowers woven into it, that’s an interesting factoid. Deep breaths. She’s straddling his thighs, running her hands down his back. Petunias, maybe? She’s palming his arse, gently at first, then squeezing roughly.  
  
"Honk honk," she says, like he’s a bicycle horn.  
  
"I hate you," he replies.  
  
"You love it." She’s spreading him apart, a lube-slick finger sliding along and then inside him. "I’m gonna fuck your brains out," she says casually, conversationally. She pulls out and comes back with two fingers, then three. Bending them, just a little.  
  
He pushes back, helplessly, shamelessly, hips lifting off the mattress. She’s laughing, which he’d be offended by if there were any space left in his brain, if it weren’t for the friction of the sheets against his cock and her hand, which is a small hand and it really shouldn’t feel like so _much_ -  
  
Then she’s gone, and he misses her instantly. His brain has maybe been rewired. She’s made a place in him, a new space, just for her, and he doesn’t mean to be so needy, only there’s this emptiness, now.  
  
But there’s also a pillow being arranged underneath him, and her hands are gripping hard onto his waist, and she’s - fucking _hell_ -  slipping into him, buried hilt-deep. His breathing goes ragged, his eyes are watering, he’s stretching and dissolving around her.  
  
She starts a slow, steady rhythm. Muttering words of encouragement, filthy things, nonsensical things. Angling her thrusts until she finds something that makes him cry out, and he doesn’t care anymore, he’ll scream his throat raw if she wants him to. His psychic barriers crumble, then break down entirely. He’ll probably regret that later. Certainly he should know better, should be less selfish, show more restraint. But he’s falling into her, going under the ocean of her, her arousal looping around his, a mess of pleasure and pressure and pain.  
  
Her unpracticed, inelegant presence in his head: _it’s fine, it’s okay, just relax._ A smirk, of sorts.  
  
Time passes, maybe. He’s aching, she’s sweating. She’s close, he knows. Holding back. Control, always. That beautiful, frustrating, needlessly bossy control.  
  
"Beg," she demands, breathlessly. "You want to come? Beg for it."  
  
 _Please_ , he thinks.  
  
"Say it. Out loud."  
  
His mouth doesn’t work, his brain doesn’t work, nothing works. But, somehow, he manages to choke it out. Swallowing hard on the tail of the word. Such a small thing, ‘please’.  
  
(Her fingertips digging into him, her jumbled thoughts pressing into his head, he hears himself like she does, voice low and gravelly and so, so desperate; she likes that, oh does she like that, she wants him begging, broken, she wants him to _say her name_ )  
  
She pulls him up and reaches around, wraps her fingers around his cock but doesn’t move them. “When I tell you to.” She strokes him, carefully and agonizingly not quite enough, tangles her other hand in his hair and yanks his head back, hard.  
  
 _Say my name._ Like he could say anything else. Like he’s ever been able to say anything else. Clara, Clara, Claraclaraclara-  
  
She lets go of his hair and slips her fingers into his mouth, thumb under his jaw. “Now,” she growls.  
  
And he comes. Then collapses, bonelessly, a Gallifreyan-shaped puddle beneath her. She’s still going, one more thrust, two, three, then he hears - as if from a great distance - the most fantastic animal yelp, then she flops down on top of him.  
  
It’s an uncomfortable position, in a comfortable sort of way. He could stay here for a while. But she rolls off of him, with a - he doesn’t want to use the word ‘squelch’, but it’s not the most appealing of noises. Her breathing slows. She flings an arm across his face, hitting him in the nose. “Well,” she says.  
  
"We should take another shower," he says, spitting out a mouthful of pillowcase.  
  
"Yep."  
  
"I can’t move."  
  
"Nope." She giggles. "God, we’re a mess."  
  
"I know. And don’t call me God, you know I don’t approve of such language." He waves an arm vaguely at her. He feels like a puppet controlled by a not-particularly-expert unseen hand. "Can we stay here for a while? Before your brutally thorough cleansing ritual."  
  
She sighs, pets his eyebrows. He wiggles them into a frown, obligingly. “Okay. But just a bit. I don’t want to dry off and get crusty.”  
  
"So romantic," he says. He kind of means it. "Thanks." He definitely, probably means that. And he means, absolutely means, what he does not say, but lets sit on top of his consciousness, buzzing over his skin, for her to find if she wants. Old words, with meanings he doesn’t completely remember anymore, but trusts entirely. _I love you,_ maybe, or something quite like it.  



End file.
